Vegas, Part Two: Mix

I went to Vegas, one million miles from Paris, and spoke French, met Pascal, learned where to find caneles (CityCenter hotel), ate my first rhum baba, indulged in madeleines with melted Nutella, and ate a way overpriced foie gras. My life is amazing.

Vegas fascinates me, partially through flattery, but also because of its vibrancy. Pascal (restaurant general manager #1 I met) complimented on my French accent (he has my eternal gratitude), I spoke a little (very little) Greek with my Ethiopian taxi driver, got a Vegas geography lesson from my Portuguese cabbie, and had fantastic French food on the 60th floor of the Mandalay Bay Hotel at Mix, Alain Ducasse's rooftop resturant/bar. For those interested in copyright infringement:


Mix was equally impressive as my first glimpse of Vegas. It features a relatively simple menu, sophisticated design, classic, well-done food, and an exquisitely French restaurant manager. The decor was elegant: simple fixtures but with a centerpiece curtain of dangling blown glass baubles.

The water glasses were blood red, the tables intimately round, the service reasonably attentive, and the food simple and delicious.

Did I mention the general manager was charming? I have a new friend in Pascal, whose style in hospitality was minimal yet attentive--very French. He was there but not obtrusive. Real waiter got the title of DB, which is short for something not French. DB, first of all, checked out a woman walking by while taking my order. DB, secondly, was recounting some self-absorbed story when he left mid-sentence to attend a table of over-black-halter-topped women. Mid-sentence. I thought he had some premonition another waiter's body had caught fire with the speed with which he abruptly left our conversation. He posed in that family's photo and came over to tell us he did so and to watch as the family realized he'd done it. It was sort of like watching a frat boy on a reality show play waiter. Summarily unimpressive.

We jumped in, though, ordering the foie gras, with a fig paste (it wasn't called a paste but it was a viscous paste derived from fig) as a base. The foie gras was greasy, rich, but a bit crisp on the outside, topped with black pepper and candied orange rind. Massive and mind-blowing.

There were also five types of bread at our table--exquisitely fresh French bread, a seedy bread, a bread with ham, a bread with fruit/nuts and.. a fifth.


The accompanying butter was exceptional somehow and was co-exhibited with a peanut butter, which could have been butter with a peanut-brittle-type mixture melded in.

So, we each got the hanger steak, my new favorite. I respect it's charming elegance despite such humble roots. We each were able to choose two accompanying sides: I got the black peppercorn sauce (bordelaise sauce with black peppercorns) and the... Riviera? Something geographical that was a delightfully greasy herb butter type topping...

It was tremendous. And was served with a grilled pappadew. The meat was cooked perfectly, the sauces were divine, and the portion was just responsible enough to still be overwhelming.


We slurped down our wine (it seems that the only thing one does with wine after eating steak) and I ordered dessert, because I love pain. I was desperate to speak with Pascal so I asked him, in French, whether the Ile Flottante or the Rhum Baba was better.

Clearly I chose correctly.

I love a man who doesn't equivocate. He said definitely Rhum Baba since it was more classically Alain Ducasse and took more skill in making than l'Ile Flottante. Before I could even consider translating for my friend Lisa, he had. Ah, les hommes francais.

In presentation, it was simple: two halves of a rum cake, a small rammekin of whipped cream, and a smaller-handled piece of pottery with rum. It was fantasic. The rum cake was already tremendously flavorful and the simple combination of rum and whipped cream with each bite was simple yet extremely elegant.

It was criminal to leave behind as much as I did. But look again at how pretty it is from another angle.

And it got worse. Pascal brought out freshly-baked madeleines that we ourselves removed from the madeleine cast-iron baking pan. They came with an egg cup filled with Nutella. Really. And a small spoon for serving chocolate with the madeleines. Heaven on earth.

Close up:

DB wasn't paying attention so after we knashed our teeth with how full we were post-madeleine, he brought more plates. After he realized we already had madeleines, he just took back the empty plates and instead brought our check, on which he charged me for the large foie gras rather than the small (ok, ok, it's Vegas, I shouldn't be frugal, but..). DB was true to form in adhering to the tenets of his name. Man couldn't even say "bordelaise" right and that's damn near the culinary capital of France. But....Alain and Pascal fed me well.

Even the bathroom was sophisticated, classic, and well-done (only because it was not French). In views, it was second only to that of the bar, which Pascal snuck us into, that is on an outside deck perpendicular to the restaurant and facing north toward the Strip:

Vegas, Part One

I have no time for this "what happens in Vegas" nonsense. Vegas, I discovered, during a short foray there this week, epitomizes the nexus between food and love. In all the traditional ways I have perhaps inarticulately identified. But it's done better in Vegas: with more neon, from higher up, with greater gusto, cleavage, and indulgence. Vegas is fake, like Epcot or Bourbon Street during a drunken stupor, but it's a city of indulging in pleasure and I can't think of an easier way to enjoy food than in a city where love of indulgence is ubiquitous.

Vegas to me is eating free oysters with three glasses of champagne offered by a gorgeous man with a literary name, a free lunch offered by a friend's brother (restaurant general manager), and learning, in French, that I have to try rhum au baba because it's the chef's specialty. A spirit of indulgence permeates everything and makes the food taste better; it's never been so easy for me the passionate about food. A hint of debauch in the air makes all the difference.

It's also never been so easily to be cavalier about love. When 105-lb waitresses' assets are as large as their head and smutty advertisements paper the streets, it's hard to imagine that good conversation is what satiates men in Vegas. So, ironically, I think I might be able to observe with only some element of exaggeration that only in Vegas could a single amateur food critic break three hearts (delight of delights!) and:

1. Spend all evening with a man who didn't speak English and with whom her Spanish-speaking ability was lauded (there were apparently differing ideas between them on what "conoserte" practically meant, although messages were sent that included "Imlove," "miss you" and "memandaras una foto para mi por pleases")
2. Spend the next evening with an accountant who offered to fly out to DC this weekend and invited her to San Jose next weekend. Accountant from Iowa. (She also would insist she's not kissing and telling totally slimy-ly as they both were ridiculous.)
3. Have a guy at 0600 stumble out of a cab while she waited for her airport shuttle, approach her, whisper in her ear that she's sexy (but also allege that she doesn't take risks or indulge in what she wants), then offer to pay for her taxi to the airport she was subsequently required to take because her friend inadvertently caused the shuttle to be missed (looking for cell phone charger in the room), while she protested that this was all unnecessary. Again, only in Vegas, would this increasingly sober out-of-cab-stumbler (tall, good-looking, from Philadelphia) make fun of her for having purchased an "Ultimate Club Hopping Package" (saying something like "a white woman with that in Vegas couldn't be more cliche"), take her bags to the taxi stand, get in the front seat, pull out a wad of money, pay for the cab and only ask for her cell phone in return (was not given), and walk back to the hotel.

And there was a little half-heart break was on her side as a result of seeing Chippendales, perhaps one of the most amazing shows ever. To see the manifestation of women's fantasies on stage was delightful (rugged businessmen saying they loved to get women flowers.. ripping off their shirts... cowboys, traditional archetypes of masculinity.. ripping off their chaps...sailors... ripping off their bell bottoms....and shirtless men coming into the crowd giving women hugs). The only way it could have been more perfect is if they gave each of us foot-rubs or said we don't look fat in our jeans.

Anyway (abandoning third-person narration) we befriended the bartender at the Chippendales bar (aka "the afterparty"), who let us guess which Chippendales were gay (only two), what each one did, and how late the Chippendales stayed out at the bar (until they found someone to hook up with, he joked). We waited until "the nicest Chippendale" was free, circa ten minutes prior to closing time.

We all talked about something, the bouncers started clearing out the girls in tight dresses, and Nice Chippendale said he'd walk us out. We meandered and NC played with his cell phone, asked us what our plans were (my suspicion is that they didn't meet his threshold or one of us didn't mention the words "hook up") so after a solid two seconds of lustily looking us over (I think more an effect of his professional tendencies) he somehow managed to disappear in about three seconds after the bar doors closed. Sort of mortifying but at the same time, enough of a Chippendale interaction to say we closed the bar down with a Chippendale. Technically.

Rapid exposure suggests that I'm doing more than respectfully touching a wall.

I recount that because it was ridiculous. What was not ridiculous was the free drink I got at Harrah's while I stared at more cowboys (fantasy is reality):

And really drank beer from a mason jar at Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill:

And leaned awkwardly into a cardboard cutout:

And perhaps more awkwardly, pretended he was real:

And ate my delicious not-at-all-awkward time-killing-between-2-and-3-am-pizza at the Wynn's restaurant, Stratta:

Speaking of exceptional blowing skills, innovative glass blower Dale Chihuly has two beautiful exhibits at the Bellagio:

In the conservatory:


And in the lobby:

The hotel itself is beautiful from atop the Eiffel Tower ride at Paris:

And equally delightful was a trip to an outpost of the Carnegie Deli in the Mirage with my mom's friend Neal, who graciously treated me to pickles, corned beef and pastrami (my new deli favorites), and good conversation. He also thoughtfully insisted I take a photo of our delicious meal for the blog, a most welcome gesture:

So in keeping with Vegas excess, I took photos of nearly everything I ate, including meals at Alain Ducasse's restaurant, Mix, Thomas Keller's restaurant, Bouchon, and at a few other delightful restaurants. I love Vegas and will explain why in pretentiously serialized accounts.

Red Fox Inn

Last weekend I was in Oklahoma. So, naturally, this was the weekend I indulged in grits, horses (ok, driving by), wide open spaces, Sonic, and a multiple steel guitar country ballads. I understand but can't entirely justify the irony. But the irony took me all the way to West Virginia.

To redress a bit of angstiness/torpidity (maybe I just create conditions where I can use such fantastic words), I threw on my best nine dollar Jackie O-ripoff sunglasses and went to her frequent haunt, Middleburg, VA. Today, I just needed to drive. The goal was to drive there and spend the day perusing selections of tea cozies, candle stores, and fancy horse accouterments. But, for amateur food writers and those who didn't find their soul satiated after the hour-or-so drive, the Red Fox Inn was where I paused. I wouldn't dare link "Middleburg" with the banality of "bathroom break."


Middleburg (the part I saw) was arrayed just off Highway 50 and featured a charming array of local boutiques and restaurants. I learned of the Red Fox Inn when I was doing a bit of research on Middleburg a few months ago: it's a historic building and has the simple yet dignified look of Virginia's colonial homes (ok, I did minimal research). The waitstaff exhibited the evident air that their preferred summertime activity was not hosting or refilling water. The dimly lit dining room, however, with its mahogany decor and paintings of ducks, was just what I wanted to see (to assure me of its historic past). For a few moments, at least, until I was seated outside. And the food was delightful.

So, maybe it doesn't look as good in two dimensions. But, I ordered shrimp and grits. The dish was garnished with both Virginia ham and barbecue sauce. It's a bit more intimidating closer up.

The meals were served with a bread basket, which had charming little apple turnovers.

Speaking of charming and little:

That little plaque says this:

I grabbed a coffee from a place nearby called A Cuppa Giddy Up (clever, yes?), got back in my car, and kept heading west. I thought I'd drive until I wanted to turn around. Highway 50 is full of motorcyclists who were doing the same thing I was: riding the small hills, driving through farms and ranches, getting pleasantly blistered by the bright sun, and repeatedly passing barbecue stands. I noticed the three guys in front of me exchange salutations with other motorcylists as they passed each other. I saw a portly man on a red scooter approach from the other direction. The motorcylists in front of me just kept going and there was no salutation. I didn't laugh quietly.

I kept driving and amazingly just happened on a Sonic, my favorite drive-in. I think the drink lady was mildly taken aback by my enthusiasm. I couldn't stop myself trying to catalogue the experience for posterity.

You may notice there is no destination on my GPS. Just a little blue bigfoot truck, driving.

I drove to Capon Bridge. I'm a sucker for roadside attractions that are preceded with multiple signs announcing their existence. It was unspectacular, but I still felt compelled to photograph it because it had an official name and a slogan ("Gateway to the Mountains"), conditions which may actually require very little effort in West Virginia.

I guess the slogan was partially right:

Liberty Tavern

It is both horrifyingly embarrassing and flattering to have things you've said yourself quoted back to you. When I was in San Antonio recently, visiting my dear friend Lisa, I said that San Antonio was full of real manly men because it had lots of strip clubs and men driving pickup trucks, she recently reminded me. Sometimes salty-mouthed girls transplanted to DC say things like that. It is also flattering when a friend, in response to my eager question about whether he had read a recent blog post, says, "You wore a hoodie to the opera?"

I've written about Andy before, who met me last night at his recommendation, Liberty Tavern. After kindly forgiving me for showing up late (I won't even say how late to risk offending conscientious readers who would be offended at my lack of planning and ability to ably find parking) and almost losing our table for rushing off to buy us beers (oh, but they were good), we started indulging.

Andy and I, as you could see from a quick perusal through this online publication, have spent a fair bit of time at Cowboy Cafe. And at Asian restaurants. And eating burgers and fries together. We felt grown up last night, though, he with his corduroy blazer, me in my monochromatic get-up, and with us discussing things like ethics in the workplace, professional development, and his upcoming wedding. Like a good friend though and true to form, Andy permitted my photographing, and we began.

Liberty Tavern is pretty great. It's in (I think) a building that used to be a drugstore and has an open yet intimate feel, with good service, a delightfully expansive menu, and even bell-shaped, glass cheese protectors. These probably have names, but it's almost nicer to let them exist in their own abstractness.

For an appetizer, we ordered grilled octopus. Octopus, I recently realized (partially because me and a date came to the mutual conclusion that octopus is one of the best items on a Mediterranean-themed menu) is one of those foods I like so much, that I have an obligation to order it regardless of where I am and what I else I get.


How heartbreakingly beautiful is this picture: grilled octopus (with the delightfully chewy, crunchy, tender suckers) with an English pea and baby carrot salad, farro, and a lemon-coriander vinaigrette. The octopus was reminiscent of lemon juice, Greek blue ocean waters, sailboats, springtime and salty air. The salad, with the slightly crunchy peas and the farro, was a complementary texture to the pliability of the salad and the varied consistency of the octopus. Total success.

Andy got pheasant, with the forward-leaning justification that one should order menu items based on their general availability on menus, which in this case (pheasant), was low. It was amazing. The pheasant came with LT bacon, red flannel hash, a small cooked quail egg, pea shoots, and roasting jus. In reality I have no idea what those things mean.

Andy is such a good friend of the food blog, letting me take photos. His pheasant was lovely; my sauteed escarole is the plate in the middle. I like getting greens because they are anachronistic and were eaten during wars and famines, which reflects the triumph of ingenuity in times of trouble of eating.

I found it to be like eating a warm salad, but in this case, it worked: they were heavily doused in shallots and a vinaigrette.

So, that was plate number two for me (although Andy was helping along the way). Dinner was.. fantastic.. with one only mildly undistributed mound of pesto. The gnocchi was accompanied by spring vegetable succotash, pinenut brown butter, and the aforementioned concentrated basil pesto and was even better when, with about seven bites left, I realized that I had accidentally been eating around the pesto in the middle until I bit into a large chunk of it. My pesto in the first 16 bites didn't have a whole lot of flavor beyond the vegetables. But, being a pseudo-aesthete, I didn't want to mess with the presentation or arbitrarily alter the dish's composition. Oops. That's what you get for using words like aesthete in your head.

(I guess the mound of pesto is sort of obvious in the middle). After good food and good conversation, the waiter put the dessert menus in our faces. To me, unsolicited menu giving is as annoying as a creepy single guys talking to me in bars diving into one-sided conversation with me without waiting for me to acquiesce (an approach which always clearly works out in their favor and not mine) so I guess it's no surprise that I ordered dessert. After about a second of each demurring, which Andy cleverly termed the dessert stand-off, we ordered ice cream. Unsurprisingly, it was awesome.

We even got to choose: one scoop each of vanilla, chocolate, and cinnamon. Little did we realize upon ordering, they are perfectly tri-paired with each other. How lucky were we. And thanks, Andy.

The Opera

"You're a special girl," the man with the treetrunk legs, vaguely Christmas-themed tie, heavy but foul-smelling breathing, and visible pretension said to me, at the end of tonight's opera. "Don't sell yourself short," he advised, as I successfully bolted from my seat in as unalarming of a way as possible and with a curt goodbye. I have a quality, that helpfully Steve--1976 Yale graduate, former opera singer, friend of the Senators, friend of the conductor (he yelled "Giovanni mio" when the conductor bowed), friend of the Kiwis to his right, friend to the mother-daughter duo to my left [so a prolific hand-shaker], friend to another Yale '76er sitting somewhere behind him--pointed out to me: I am a patient listener.

Damn straight I am a patient listener. I clearly don't know any better. "What book are you reading?" he asked, during the intermission, while I tried to avert conversation by feigning intense interest in my book. I closed it, showing the cover. No response. It apparently was unworthy of commentary. "I'm reading this," as he proudly displayed some book about Dutch settlers. (I think he may have even read me the riveting title). He proceeded to tell me why it was of interest to him, and presumably why I should care. What I stewed about until about scene 3, act II, however, was his inquiry into my career.

When I initially sat down, he inquired whether I was an actress or musician. I had a "sparkle," he said, after telling me I was a long way from Oklahoma upon seeing my hoodie. When I laughed a bit too derisively, perhaps, he tried again at intermission. "What exactly do you do at your job," he asked, after I mumbled something about government service. Before I even had a chance to ponder a response, his follow-up question was "Secretarial?" The theater started to turn black and white, I envisioned him in his pipe and loafers in his arm chair watching Leave it to Beaver, and I completely ignored the sexist and geographically-ignorant nature of his question and said yes. I capitulated, but I could have said I designed shuttle engines and he wouldn't have heard. "I know people," he crooned. "I know people at the State Department. I had lunch with John Kerry. We all need a little help," he offered. Have I mentioned this town is a great place to meet men?

If I had known that was my fate for meeting men tonight, I would have asked for extra onions on each dish tonight. Thankfully I didn't, though, and enjoyed a really stellar meal at the Kennedy Center's Roof Terrace restaurant. They offer a prix fixe menu with really, too much nonsense, so I ordered a la carte. The restaurant's arrangement is a bit strange; I was sat at a table opposite the large middle cluster of tables so there was something a bit adversarial about my table and the rest, which, being special, I quickly overcame. The chairs are also those terrible ones that remind me of chairs featured in 1980s office dramas or used in failed mortgage and loan lobbies: they're boxy and feel/look like they're upholstered in burlap. If I sat in the middle of the chair, I couldn't reach my food. If I rested on the outer edge, balancing precariously, I could reach my dinner but towered over it. There was something very Foucauldian about it. That's right, I said it. Even the copies/coffee-retrieval girl knows a little something about power structures.

I had a delicious salad with a glass of sauvingnon blanc. They arrived at the same time, about 1.5 minutes after I had ordered them (better than a Mexican restaurant, the point of reference for a provincial toner-replacer like myself). Bibb lettuce, watercress and endive were arrayed on the plate, with strips of Asian Pear, a small block of Gorgonzola, hazelnuts, and lightly (refreshingly) drizzled with pomegranate vinaigrette.

Dinner elicited a bit of cynicism (but I calibrated, showing I am not hard hearted). I ordered risotto, which came out looking like rice with gravy. It could have been a disaster, but may have been some of the best risotto I've ever had. And I only got it because I liked how I heard an old man pronounce it a table away (rolling his r's, rrrrrreeee-SO-tow).

It was called forest mushroom risotto, and the menu advertised its featuring white truffle oil and aged pecorino. I often recall, upon thinking of truffle oil, my nearly open hostility to a blind date who admitted to buying a $30 bottle of truffle oil because he liked the taste. Where's that guy now?

The view was beautiful though. Light mist, pretty blue sky. I was one of perhaps three diners who didn't qualify for AARP membership.

AKA:

The outside terrace was beautiful and gasp-eliciting as well. It was one of the best self-dates I've ever had. I really outdid myself this time.

The view south (Lincoln memorial in the center distance)

The view southwest

The view east (Washington monument in the center)

The show, Porgy and Bess, was great. My favorite songs didn't send chills down my spine. Maybe that was because in the second half I was physically recoiling from Steve's presence, breath, and space-invading thighs. It may also have been because it wasn't a super stellar performance, which I think is more likely. But the theater is beautiful. When one rolls their eyes repeatedly in frustration (even if only figuratively), the view above is quite nice.